


Night Fever

by Davechicken



Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: With his angel gone, Crowley can do nothing but dream.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508924
Comments: 25
Kudos: 161
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	Night Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Patolozka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patolozka/gifts), [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



He used to enjoy sleep. He’d close his eyes and let his body slip into the soft sheets and his mind wander. His muscles unknotting, his thoughts drifting like palm leaves on the Nile. He’d curl up in the smell of linen and cotton and night-blooming flowers. 

But that was before. Before…

Now, when he closes his eyes, he can’t drown out the sounds. Even if they’re too far from him to actually listen, he can hear the echoes of the screams of the slaves. He can hear the demons laughing and jeering. He can hear it all.

He can see it, too. See the blood, sweat, misery. There was probably plenty of horrible things before, but he hadn’t noticed, or the angel had tempered the evil. It _is_ true that it’s worse, because Hell has made sure it is, but…

Crowley rolls over, pushing his face into the duck-down pillow and sinking his incisors into his lip. 

Why couldn’t it have continued? Why did Hell feel the need to intervene? He could have concealed the whole… you know. Children thing. Maybe one day he’d have admitted it after all, and Aziraphale would have believed it wasn’t what he’d meant. And they could… what? Have lived happily ever after? An angel, a demon-who-would-be-a-false-god, their semi-adopted children and any ones who came after? 

As if. As if either side would ever have let them. They’d been living on borrowed time, a lacuna. He’d been foolish to think they could have stayed together, and when he remembered that night… that one, hopeful night before it all went wrong…

Crowley had offered him his ring, knowing precisely what it meant. And had he asked a day before, an hour… he’d have gone with him. When he remembered back to that day, he knew he’d have said yes. Left every swirl of substance behind. These trappings were nice, but they were simply superficial. What point was a huge bed, with no one to share it with? Fine clothes, if they didn’t accompany great times with those you loved? Rich food eaten alone was ash on the tongue, and no song in the world sung to celebrate his name would ring in his ears like the angel speaking his name.

He should have gone, but he couldn’t. If he had, they’d both be dead - or worse - by now. He’d be ripped apart, or strung on the rack. Aziraphale… what would Heaven do? Cast him down, and let Hell warp him until the very heart in him died? Burn out the love from him? Force them to hurt one another, or watch each other be--

Crowley pulled the pillow to press down on the back of his head, and tried to bite the bed to muffle the scream of frustration. It had to be this way. It had to. It was the only way the angel could survive, and the only way he could hope to be happy. It’s why he’d lied, thrown his love back in his face, thrown everything back in a snarl of lies. Trying to free him, trying to keep him safe and sound. If he hated him, he could move on. He could find a new purpose, maybe find a--

 **No**.

Not find a new love. No. There was only so much selflessness Crowley was capable of, and letting him find some new paramour was not on the list. He wanted him happy, but not too happy. If Crowley had to suffer the aching feeling in his chest, then Aziraphale didn’t get to find someone new. He could be just happy enough and nothing more.

His toes scrawled down the bed, his spine arching, as he felt the serpent in him coil. His gut clenched. His temples ached. His lips raw and almost bloody from his teeth. 

His angel! His angel. He’d been so close. So close to happiness. So close to escaping the stench of Hell. 

It would never happen, not now. He could accept it, or he could - what? There was no changing it. And he couldn’t just will away what he’d felt. He couldn’t pull the sand back in the timer. So… 

He needed to sleep. When he was asleep, he would be unaware, if just for a little while. Wine or beer did nothing. Food. Drink. Parties. Nothing helped lift the ache in his core. He drifted through the days, months, years… 

It was wrong. It was so very wrong. The only way he could alleviate the pain was to drive himself into a fiction. Dive headlong into a world of his own creation, where he could try to control every element. He jammed his eyes shut until lights sparked constellations across the inside of his skull, and imagined.

Aziraphale would come back, and he’d drive the hellspawn from the palace. Crowley could never quite work out how, but that was part of the story. He’d drive the darkness back, and he’d walk into the demon’s chambers, crowned in glory.

Crowley would look up, his eyes streaked from the pain of missing him, and he’d whisper his name. _Aziraphale_.

He’d try to tell him. Try to apologise. Try to explain. But the angel would know, or he wouldn’t care, and everything would be forgiven and understood. He’d stride inside, and grab hold of Crowley’s hair. Pull his head back hard, and punish-reward him with the fiercest kiss of his whole life. Teeth and lips and hunger long-denied. He’d claim him as his own, steal him from Hell, wrap him in white wings that would save him from all the world. 

If he dwelled too long on the finer details, it ruined the mood. 

The other hand would find his breast, would push him back into the pillows. Crowley wound his own hand into his long hair, below that ribbon he would sometimes pull just that bit too tight. Yank, until his whole scalp tingled. Angel. Oh, angel. 

The fantasy threatened to shatter, and so he tugged harder, until his eyes watered. Rocked his hips into the bed, letting the fabric of his dress slide up. His calves bared by degrees, and he whimpered at the way it wasn’t quite enough.

In his mind, the angel kissed his neck even as he tortured him with pain. Fingernails down his back, until he reached the demon’s ass. A finger thrust roughly into him, not bothering with any nicety. (Aziraphale would bless his butt, or slick his hand, but Crowley ignored that thought in favour of the way his hole throbbed and ached as he breached himself with his middle finger.) The angle wasn’t right, but it was enough. Enough to have his knees shift under him, and his hand leave his hair to hold onto the bed. Ass lifted, and his palm flat to his cheeks as he worked that digit in deep. 

Aziraphale could love him. He could. He was an angel, and - and - it wouldn’t matter. Not what he’d done, not what he’d been. He could punish him with pain, and heal him with pleasure. He could whisper that he’d forgive him, and curl his fingers to open him wide. Open him, and he’d feel the cool night air and the need for him to fill that void. 

Aziraphale could make it right. He could wipe out all the days they’d been apart. He could find a path for them, a place where they could stay. Chart a course by the stars, walk them into the desert, and never come back.

The fingers weren’t enough, even as his hips lifted, twisted, and ground like crazy. His mouth opened to pant the air in, and he moved his other hand below. He could imagine the angel was wrapping his plump, strong hand around his cock. Pushing away the fall of fabric to fist along his length. Their bodies joining, with his angel claiming him as his own. 

It would feel so good, to be used, to be taken, to be filled. To feel the beat of his heart. To surrender himself to his pleasure. To welcome the angel deep in his core, and let him use him for all he needed. Brutal, fierce, rough coupling that left his knees skinned. Kisses that burned like holy water over his skin. Hands that pulled him back, impaled him, railed him and completed him. 

Oh, he’d love this. The noises he’d make. The joy of knowing he could give his angel all he was. Could love--

Crowley screamed, and knew much more would break the spell. He’d see it wasn’t real. He’d see it could never…

The hand on his cock pinched and twisted, and he jabbed his fingers deeper into his ass, trying to find that place that would spark the final fire. So close. So. Close. 

He loved him. He loved Aziraphale, and so they could never be together. Not unless they could find a way to hide from Heaven and Hell. Not unless they could rip the rules apart, and make their own paradise. Here, in a tent, in a field, anywhere. Just his angel, and he’d be happy…

Crowley pushed his thumb just below the crown of his cock, and it was enough. It was enough. He cried out, choking the name into broken sounds so no one would hear and damn them both. His hole tightened on his fingers, his balls heavy and aching as his release pulsed through his grip. 

Even if Aziraphale loved him, it could never be enough.

He slipped his fingers from his ass, and crumpled into the warm, wet stain spreading on the sheets. He didn’t deserve to miracle it away. He was filthy, and he was dirty, and he was damned, forever. His chest heaved, and he let the tears fall freely at last. He could grieve, and he could ache, and he could love him from afar.

It was the only thing he deserved.

Angel. I love you. I would have come, but I loved you too much to destroy you. Forgive me. 

He let the words roll around his mind, words he would never let touch his tongue. Just for the night, he could pretend his angel heard his prayer. He could sleep, and maybe believe the lie. He could convince the angel, but never himself, not for long.


End file.
